


This is Your Uber Driver

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Broke Stiles, Broken Phones, M/M, Rich Lydia, Uber Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 13:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13077477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Stiles has been having one of the worst weeks of his life. Nothing can make it better. Nothing. Not even the cute Uber driver Lydia sends to pick him up.





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theroguesgambit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/gifts).



> Prompt from [here](http://davidhodali.com/post/168550076617).  
> Inspired by [this](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com/post/168572678835/tastefullyoffensive-via-decentbirthday).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Most text used in phone conversation (indicated by >> and <<) was taken from the source image.  
> Prompt from [here](http://davidhodali.com/post/168550076617).  
> Inspired by [this](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com/post/168572678835/tastefullyoffensive-via-decentbirthday).

Of course Stiles would drop his phone in the toilet after being startled by a drunk person who proceeded to puke on Stiles because he was closer than the stool. Of course the phone would be unsalvageable—not that Stiles wanted to save it after it splashed down into the mix of water and urine.

Of course, Stiles would lose his contacts and all his videos, pictures, and random thoughts put into the notes and sounds. Three years of his life gone just like that. Of fucking course.

And now, Stiles had a new phone courtesy of his dad’s contract. But, he didn’t have his contacts yet which sucked because his friends refused to tell him which ones they were when they texted and he was playing a guessing game. He’d already pissed off Erica and Lydia because he hadn’t responded properly to either of them. Although, to be fair, he thought it was Scott texting both times since they brought up an intimate shortcoming.

Stiles groaned and smacked his head against the table. This whole week sucked so bad. And to top it off Lydia was requiring his presence at her annual donations ball, never mind that Stiles barely made enough to support living. Now she wanted him to rub elbows with the bigwigs of Beacon Hills.

He sighed, tucking his hands under his legs because the urge to tug at his hair was too great to ignore but Lydia would kill him if he messed it up. She was supposed to be picking him up in a few minutes, and even sitting felt taboo.

Jesus but he needed to unload this bullshit on someone. His dad was busy with work, and his friends weren’t emotionally available right now. Stiles jumped up and started pacing.

Where the hell was Lydia?

Just when he decided to get a drink of water, his phone buzzed with an incoming text.

>>I’m here for you.

Which of his friends was that? Stiles scrolled through his meager contacts, each one assigned multiple initials until he could get the actual names. The only contact that was proper was his dad’s, and it was definitely not his dad texting him. Stiles didn’t even know if his dad could text.

It also wasn’t Lydia/Erica/Scott/Boyd. That left Isaac—unlikely—Danny—probable—Allison—also probable—and Harley—who he hadn’t talked to since college graduation four years ago.

Safest bet was just to respond in as neutral of a way as he could.

<<Thanks :) I’m going through a tough time so it means a lot.

After a few seconds of deliberation, he added another text.

<<And sorry, I lost all my contacts. Who is this?

Couldn’t hurt to ask. Maybe this friend would finally take pity on him and give him a real name.

Two minutes and thirty seconds later, a response came in.

>>This is your Uber driver.

>>I am here to pick you up.

Stiles frowned down at his phone. Lydia was supposed to pick him up. She specifically said she would. She knew Stiles didn’t have enough money to take a cab, or even an Uber, to her event.

Oh God, he’d just sent an inappropriate response to an Uber driver, a complete stranger, who was only here to drive him to his destination. God, this was so mortifying.

Stiles contemplated texting the Uber driver that he was suddenly ill. Projectile vomiting uncontrollably ought to do the trick. He would text Lydia too but he wasn’t sure which number was hers or even if he had the right one in his phone.

His phone buzzed again before he could make a decision.

>>Your date already paid for your ride.

Well, that was it then. If Lydia had called the Uber and paid the Uber, then the least Stiles could do was actually take the Uber to the venue. He could come up with an excuse to bow out gracefully before wallets were opened. Plus, he’d get some free food. Fancy shindig like this was bound to have some interesting if not fully edible hor d’oeuvres.

<<Coming.

Stiles checked his reflection—still acceptable by his standards. Lydia’s were something else entirely and Stiles was never up to par so he stopped trying once he felt he was sufficiently spiffed up—before he headed outside.

He froze on his front step, staring in awe at the black Camaro idling by the curb. The passenger side was to his house so it was a little hard to make out the driver but Stiles thought he saw styled stubble on a strong jaw line and soft looking lips. The upper face was obscured by a pair of reflective aviators which should have looked dickish and out of place, but fit very well with the Camaro and the leather jacket the driver was wearing.

Stiles leaned down by the lowered passenger window. “Hey, since this is a two-door,” he said, “do you want me to sit up front or in the back?”

The driver eyed Stiles. “Front,” he said gruffly. “Getting into the back might wrinkle your suit.”

“True.” Stiles climbed into the passenger side, tucking his phone, wallet, and keys into the tiny hidden pocket in the suit’s jacket. “I’m Stiles.” He offered his hand to the driver.

After a beat, he took it, shaking it quickly. His hand was warm and dry, a little rough with calluses but a nice hand to be sure. And it was also the first human contact Stiles had had in over three days.

“Derek,” the driver said. “Your date gave me the address where I’m supposed to drop you. It’s about three miles outside of town.” Derek stared at Stiles pointedly until he buckled his seat belt. Then, Derek pulled away from the curb, focusing entirely on driving.

“Great.” Stiles nodded, wishing he hadn’t put his phone away just so that he could fiddle with something because it seemed as if Derek was done talking for the time being. Stiles bit his lip to keep any and all observations to himself since most people, especially those that didn’t know him, didn’t appreciate his running commentary.

It was a quiet ride.

Too quiet.

Derek was too focused, and Stiles had the wild thought that maybe Derek hadn’t been sent by Lydia, after all, he’d only referred to her as Stiles’ “date.” Maybe Derek was a serial killer preying on vulnerable young adults well-dressed by their friends but still too poor to pay for their own Uber rides. Then, he had the thought that maybe he was supposed to tip Derek.

Hell no he wasn’t tipping a potential serial killer…even if he enjoyed the way Derek drove, paying attention to all the legal driving laws until they were on the outskirts of town and then he punched the accelerator and let Stiles feel the power of the Camaro as they wound around curves, heading for the preserve.

Stiles watched the road as intently as Derek did, counting the dashed lines as best he could. He kept having to start over but it was okay, it was helping calm him.

Until Derek opened his mouth and said, “I could, you know.”

Stiles startled. “Could what?” he asked. Could…kill him? Drive off a cliff? Dump his body in an unmarked grave?

“No, what?” Derek scowled, eyebrows pulling tight over his eyes as he glared at the road. “Why would I do any of those things? I’m not a killer.”

“Sorry,” Stiles murmured. One of these days, his dad always said, his mouth was going to get him in trouble. Shame it happened today. He would probably have to tip Derek a lot to get him to forgive the fact that he thought he was a serial killer.

He fished out his wallet, thumbing it open and immediately closing it and tucking it away again. Internally, he screamed “FUCK!” as loud as he could. He was flat broke. Not even a dollar.

Lydia had better have given Derek a tip for the shit she should know Stiles would put him through. She was the one reneging on her promise to pick him up for her charity event.

“So,” Derek said, suddenly, “I could listen, you know, to you if it would make you feel better?”

“Uh,” Stiles said intelligently. “What?”

“Listen. To you.” Derek shrugged. He cut a quick glance at Stiles before refocusing on the road. “You said you were going thought a lot and that it was nice to have someone there for you. So, go ahead, talk.”

Stiles eyed him suspiciously. No one ever wanted Stiles to talk. Not those that knew him well. Except for Scott. Scott was always good for a bitching session. Lately though Scott had been busy with work and his twin girls and juggling moving his mom into a smaller house. Derek did not know the hell he was asking for.

“You got a moment?” Stiles asked, just to confirm that Derek was as much of a masochist as he thought h was.

Derek shrugged again. “Nowhere to be,” he said evenly. “Just driving you out to the event of the year.”

And damn, that sounded bitter.

“Are you sure you wanna listen to me? Sounds like you might have something to say.”

Derek sighed. “Just talk.”

So, Stiles launched into a recap of his shitty week, and in the middle of backtracking for backstory, jumping forward to what-ifs and will-bes, he realized that his shitty week had actually been more like a shitty month and he was seriously broke.

“I’m not even sure I can go to this thing, you know,” he told Derek, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “It’s something Lydia helps organize every year, and she ropes me in every time.”

“But then all the guests start donating and you can’t do it, so it just makes you feel worse.”

Stiles clicked his tongue and pointed at Derek. “Exactly. I mean, I don’t even have enough to tip you for this ride.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

At the same time, they both said, “Lydia took care of it.”

“Wait,” Stiles said, “so you actually know Lydia’s name?”

“You literally just said it,” Derek said gruffly. He nodded then, almost resolutely, “Yeah, she’s a family friend. She and my sister use tonight to solicit donations for different, worthy causes. I’m sent out as a chauffeur, and later, I’ll be ferrying the drunks home.”

“How much did Lydia pay you to drive me?”

Derek’s hands clenched on the steering wheel. “You wanna grab something to eat,” he said instead. “My treat?”

“I want you to answer my question,” Stiles said. “How. Much. Did. Lydia. Pay. You. To. Drive. Me.”

“Wow,” Derek whistled. “That’s dedication.”

“Just answer the damn question.”

Derek sighed, pulling to the side of the road and pulling off his sunglasses. He folded the bows neatly before tucking them into the visor.

Stiles let out an incomprehensible sound, irritated by the deliberate wait, and Derek ducked his head.

“She didn’t pay me at all,” he admitted finally.

“Why not?”

Derek shrugged. He seriously needed to stop doing that. The leather jacket did not look like it could handle any more vigorous activity.

“She said you were cute and that I was your type.”

“What?” Stiles squeaked.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Sorry. I just thought you’d prefer actually going somewhere that didn’t have an obligatory price tag attached. Lydia said you liked greasy spoons and holes in the walls.”

“Clichés,” Stiles said in disbelief. “You think a cliché is going to win me over, Mr. Murder brows?”

“What do my eyebrows have to do with this?”

“Think again, Mr. I’m-Not-a-Serial-Killer-and-your-friend-wants-to-set-us-up-together.”

“Seriously? I just thought you’d like to eat something that you could pronounce instead of fancy French shit that does not taste good. Trust me on that.” Derek made a face as if recalling the not-good French shit he’d eaten lately.

“I,” Stiles faltered, turning away. Food? Convenient that they were now parked outside the _Burger Joint_ , the greasiest spoon and most hole-in-the-wall restaurant anywhere close to Beacon Hills. “This isn’t Lydia’s function,” Stiles said, staring at the illuminated sign proclaiming the “best burgers in town.” It had been years since Stiles had eaten here. It still looked as cheesy as ever, the 50s décor screaming for an update.

“Duh,” Derek said. “I’m buying. Let’s go. You can keep telling me all about how your friends are being dickheads and not giving you their numbers over a couple of Number Fives.”

“I’m not a Number Five,” Stiles protested, following Derek’s lead and scrambling out of the car. “I’m at least a Number Eight or Nine.”

“The Number Five comes with onion rings,” Derek said, as if that was the only argument to be made.

“Yeah, well, the Number Eight comes with curly fries and the Nine comes with cheese curds. If you’re buying me food, you are not making me eat onions when I could have potatoes or cheese.”

“Deal,” Derek said. Stiles grinned at him and Derek returned the smile. At first, it looked painful, like Derek was unsure of what his mouth was doing, but by the time Stiles had shimmied out of his suit jacket, thrown it over the back of his seat, retrieved his phone and wallet, and run a hand through his hair, the smile looked more natural, fond and kind. It lit up Derek’s face, making his eyes sparkle.

Stiles stumbled over nothing and would have fallen flat on his face if Derek hadn’t grabbed his arm to steady him.

Damn but if Stiles wasn’t already tripping into trouble, love barely a concept but flutters in his stomach all the same. At least he waited until they were seated, menus in their faces even though they both knew what they wanted, before he let his emotions get the best of him as he stared unabashedly at Derek. Their waiter, a guy Stiles went to school with, seemed to think they needed more time, and he scooted off to top off a few deputies’ mugs while Derek scanned the drink list and Stiles watched him.

“I should probably let Lydia know that I’m not going to make it to her party.”

“Oh, she knows,” Derek said. He laid his menu down, reaching across the table to tug Stiles’ down too. “She didn’t actually pay me to pick you up. Truth is, she didn’t say that I was your type. She didn’t even use the word ‘cute’ to describe you.”

The bottom of Stiles’ stomach fell out. “No?” he said, as nonchalantly as he could, lifting his menu back up to cover his face. Derek jerked it down again.

“No,” he said. “She had a picture on her phone that she was showing to Laura, my sister. I happened to see it and I…I knew I had to meet you.”

“But, you didn’t know if you were my type?” Stiles was confused.

Derek’s blush deepened. “I didn’t know if I was your type,” he admitted softly, “but I knew you were mine. I was hoping that I would be, but it’s okay if I’m not. I’ll still let you bend my ear when you need someone to listen. You already have my number. Call me anytime.”

“You don’t know what you just unleashed,” Stiles said, leaning back and smiling so wide the corners of his mouth hurt. “But, before we get into the subject of attraction, let’s get through this date. Although, I think you’re a weirdo for those onion rings.”

Derek hummed. “Guess you’ll just have to try to convert me,” he said, a small, private smile curving his lips. “I look forward to it.”

“So do I.”

~ The End ~

**Author's Note:**

> Edited briefly by myself. If something stands out as wrong, please point it out.  
> Thanks to all who read and/or comment.  
> Also posted on [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/).


End file.
